


In The Cannibal Glow

by FiliTheLionKing (IAmYourWatson)



Series: A Witch and His Vampire [3]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Anders is a witch, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Brutality, Consensual Kink, Consensual Violence, M/M, Mitchell is still a vampire, Murder, Rough Sex, Vampires, Violence, Violent Sex, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmYourWatson/pseuds/FiliTheLionKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mitchell had settled down into a comfortably quiet life of anonymity in Auckland with his mate, the witch Anders. He'd left behind his bloody past and started a newer, less outwardly bloody life with the blonde witch, and he had no interest in taking over any local covens of vampires or becoming a vampire king again. However, one threat to his lover's life, indirect as it is, is enough to bring him out of hiding and to the forefront of local vampire politics again. With blood dripping from his fangs once again, Mitchell destroys his lover's enemies and finds his name once again plastered on the tongues of every vampire from here to the sea. </p><p>The King has returned. </p><p>This is the story of how he got there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Cannibal Glow

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, we venture into the dark, demented world of the witch and his vampire. I just can't keep away from these two, it seems. Don't worry, my lovely beta Blue is working on the next chapter of The Ice King, the fic that started it all, so to speak, so in the meantime I hope you enjoy this next installment of darkness and blood! As always, comments and critiques are welcomed, appreciated, and necessary for my mental health. Love, the Lioness

Mitchell had been the vampire king of Bristol before Anders showed up. He’d swam in a river of blood for most of his afterlife, and he had learned to live with it. He’d felt such remorse for his past actions for far too long, ever since the 60’s, at least, when he’d tried to go off the blood for good. A stupid idea, really; he was an animal, and animals needed to feed if they were to survive. Did humans condemn other humans for finding nourishment where they could? Well, yes, but vegetarians had it all wrong, and frankly he enjoyed eviscerating any herbivore he could find, even though their blood wasn’t exactly as tasty as someone who followed the natural order of things and ate meat as well as plant matter. Mmmm, yes…eating someone who’d just had a nice, juicy steak dinner was probably the best meal he could have. He’d have to ask Anders to bring him a victim who’d just left a steakhouse next time…

The night was cool, not cold, but it was enough that you could see your breath for the first moment or so after you stepped out of your door, right before your body adjusted its temperature to the air outside. Stars shone brightly despite the light pollution of the city, and the sky was a velvety blue-black, as always. Auckland had lovely night skies, he’d give it that, even though he would always love the nights over Ireland the best. Something about his homeland just gave it a certain kind of magic, the kind of magic only Anders could replicate, it seemed. He grinned, his fangs flashing in the light of the streetlights as he moved through the darkness. 

 Vampires were no strangers to New Zealand’s shores; they’d been there since the island was first colonized by Europeans, having stolen aboard all kinds of fishing and war vessels as the island was forcibly opened to trade. Vampires were a disease, after all, and they loved infecting new victims. The Maori themselves had nothing like vampires, relying only on their gods to terrify them when necessary. Poor, simple fools, they’d been so safe until their borders had been opened up. Still, he couldn’t blame them, since indigenous peoples were so often the victims of unfortunate circumstance. He couldn’t help but pity them, as much as someone like Mitchell could pity anybody. 

Speaking of vampires, Mitchell was on his way to a sort of Vampires Anonymous, a meeting of the local vampires called by the elders of the area. New Zealand, being a relatively new haunt of the fanged and hungry-eyed, had no real formal system of supernatural government; the vampires left the werewolves alone, and the ghosts were few and far between, since the Maori had their own way of dealing with the spirits of the deceased, and traditionally European and New World ghosts didn’t often hang around such a nice place as this. Not enough sudden deaths out here in the wilds, not a lot of unfinished business until recently. There was lots of free, open space where a vampire or werewolf or any other kind of supernatural could find solitude. New Zealand was known as a sort of hermit’s paradise for those of the unnatural persuasion, and there was little in the way of turf wars. Now, though, it seemed that someone had decided to make a ruckus, and the vampires were not pleased. 

He stood in the shadows of the gathering, which was being held in a small, abandoned warehouse on the docks; typically melodramatic of them, he thought. No one there knew he was  _the_  John Mitchell, the notorious vampire that had haunted Great Britain since before the invention of the television. He’d like to keep it that way. Still, he got a few glances, mostly because he was a newbie, a strange face in a sea of vampires who seemed to know each other very well, for the most part. The eldest vampire there, a man named Klaus, called the meeting to order. For the most part, Mitchell drowned him out with thoughts of Anders; he was only really showing up to keep up relations with the locals. He didn’t need their protection, nor did they warrant his own, unless Anders or his family had some reason to need them protected. Soon, though, Klaus said something  _very_  interesting.

"So the troublemakers are a group of vampires from somewhere in France, if I’m not mistaken. They seem to be on something of a witch hunt, killing stray witches wherever they go. So far, they’ve been on the far side of the island, quite a ways away from us, but that won’t last long if they continue coming this way. For the most part, the witches have been dealing with it on their own, and they’ve thinned out a few of the members, but the number of dead, drained witches is growing far too fast. So heed my warning: stay out of their way. Don’t join up with them, and don’t go anywhere near a witch, should you see one. We have a very good thing going on here with the local clans, and I think we can all agree that a mutual wariness is far better than an all-out war." 

Mitchell barely kept in his snarl; vampires, brazen young things from the sound of it, were threatening witches? He could care less about the more Northern clans, or even the ones nearby; all he cared about was Anders and his safety, and maybe, if he had some spare time, the safety of his clan. All around him, vampires were shifting worriedly, whispering to each other. They were new recruits, for the most part, and were still learning the ways of the world. Mitchell would have grinned and cackled at them, had his mind not been elsewhere. That was his downfall, because the moment he let his guard down, he was seen by none other than their host. The old, grey-haired vampire (possibly from the 1940s, more likely older) came closer to Mitchell, but kept some distance away from him. Good; he knew that Mitchell was far worse a nightmare than a few stray vampires. 

"Perhaps I am presuming too much, but are you not John Mitchell?" His German accent was thick, reminding Mitchell of the early days of the war, when such an accent meant the enemy and not just another passerby. He held back a shudder and met the man’s gaze. 

"Yeah, who’s askin’?" Maybe revealing himself to just these few would ensure his privacy; after all, if he could get himself something of a cult following here, he could order them to leave him alone most of the time. 

"My name is Klaus Jaegermann, one of the more senior vampires here," He laughed as if he’d made a joke; he must often get told he looked to old to be useful as a vampire. Mitchell stayed silent. "You must be a recent arrival, otherwise I would have seen you, I think. Regardless, there are rumors that you were king in Bristol. Is that true?"

"…Aye, it is. Not that I’m their king anymore. I got bored with them…" He flashed his fangs, hinting that he’d killed them all, but he knew that he’d just left. Let the little ones be scared of him; they would be smart if they did, and dead if they didn’t. 

"Ah, very well. Well then, I won’t ask you to be our king, since most of us, with you included, I think, rather like our privacy. No covens here, not yet anyways. Welcome to the Auckland vampires, Herr Mitchell. Do keep an eye out, though; the witches of New Zealand are powerful and many. They’re like us, in that way: New Zealand is a refuge for those too tired of the world to want to deal with it anymore, or those who were cast out and want nothing but space and time." The old man smiled and moved on, chatting with a few fledgling vampires. Mitchell raised an eyebrow, then left. Well, that had been…exciting. He snickered, heading out into the night. 

He had business to take care of. 

* * *

Blood from a vampire tasted different than blood from a human; it was sticky, cold, and tasteless. It left tacky smears on your skin that were harder to scrub out than those from a living being, and it had no smell or warmth. Granted, vampires weren’t exactly known for being walking furnaces, but having at least something resembling a steady heartbeat should entitle them to decently tepid blood. Mitchell walked through the night, away from the mangled corpses heaped in a pile on the flatlands. 

No one would harm his witch. No one. 

The fools had been busy feasting on the dead body of some old, raggedy hedgewitch, his stick-thin corpse drained of blood. He reminded Mitchell of Olaf, in a way, even though the eldest witch of the Johnson clan wasn’t exactly old and ugly in any way (not yet, at least, but the drugs might get him there someday). They’d been drunk off the minimal, yet thrilling power of the witch, their blood singing as they danced around in a stupor. That was their greatest mistake. Their second greatest mistake was planning out loud who they were going to kill next: the vampires of Auckland, and especially those ‘delicious Johnson boys, the cocks!’. Mitchell had seen red, but waited. He was a predator; he could bide his time. 

Patiently, he waited for the blood drunkenness to wear off, leaving the  vampires sated and full, but most importantly, tired. They’d started lolling about, trying to make themselves comfortable in their little camp, and that was when Mitchell struck. Out of nowhere, his eyes black and his fangs sharp, the king of vampires had snarled like the inhuman thing he was and ripped out the throat of the nearest intruder with his nails alone. His claws had pierced through weak, tender flesh like a hot knife through butter, claiming his first victim of the night. He was hungry, and if this was to be his feast, so be it. He’d survived on worse before. Soon they were all reduced to piles of desiccated meat and bone, their clothes too bloody to be recognizable. He left their bodies there as examples, having torn them up enough to permanently kill them. 

He’d missed about thirteen calls from his worried boyfriend, who’d caught wind of the vampires’ meeting not long after Mitchell had left. The vampire had only texted that he’d be away for the evening, but it was now broad daylight, and the witch was concerned. He sat at work, not caring that his paperwork was piling up and that Dawn was lecturing him. The blonde typed up another text and waved his hand at his assistant, immediately shutting her up. He spared a look at his thrall. “Go fuck Ty or something, you have the day off. Cancel all my appointments, says it’s a family emergency or whatever. Go get laid, why don’t you?” As the thrall turned to do as she was ordered, Anders looked back at his phone, finally getting the response he needed. ‘On my way home. Had business to take care of.’ 

Anders snorted and rolled his eyes, well used to his mate’s taciturn nature when it came to texting. He’d felt the thrill of the chase and the victory of a hunt well-won through their psychic bond, but not much else, meaning that Mitchell was far away from him. Now, as he drove to their apartment, he could feel his lover’s signature getting closer and closer, meaning that the vampire was home already. He rushed into their flat, slamming the door shut angrily as he marched to their bedroom. Whatever harsh words he had for his lover, however, faded as he saw the tall vampire standing in the middle of their candlelit bedroom, dripping in blood not his own, his fangs the only bright part of him left. Mitchell’s eyes were still pitch black, his claws sharp and deadly, and his even his hair was dripping with gore. The witch gasped, leaning against the closed door to their bedroom, moaning as he took in the sinful sight before him.

"…Like what you see?" Mitchell’s voice was rough with a strange mixture of shouting and disuse, his supernatural shrieking having ravaged his throat when he was busy feeding hours earlier. He watched eagerly as Anders remained silent, simply waving his hand so that all but his tight boxer briefs were vanished away, leaving the witch almost bare to Mitchell’s sight. The vampire grinned ferally, stripping himself of his clothes with abandon. It was a favorite game of theirs: Anders loved to watch Mitchell undress, even though he never had the patience to undress the normal way himself. The Irish vampire stripped until he too only stood in his boxers, the tight black fabric clinging to his blood-drenched skin. He beckoned to his mate, one long finger curling in invitation. 

Anders pounced. In a flash, he was on top of his lover, pushing him down onto the bed with his momentum, even as the vampire wrapped his arms around the smaller man to keep him steady as they fell. The two became a writhing tangle of limbs, blood smearing onto clean, pale skin. Blonde hair became tinged red with transferred sticky red fluid, and chest hair became matted with the gore. Mitchell’s bloody hands came up to rest on Anders’ back, leaving red handprints like torn angel wings on the witch’s shoulderblades. Sharp fingernails left deep welts in a pale back, drawing immortal blood from the witch, who hissed in crazed pleasure-pain as he bit deep into Mitchell’s shoulder in retaliation. Dark eyes met golden orbs as they held the other’s gaze for long moments, just reveling in the wild abandon they were falling into before lips had to meet again. Blood was passed between them like alcohol, making them become drunk on lust and power. 

Cocks hardened like steel, kisses became less like declarations of love and more like attempts to suck the other’s black soul from their lips, and black magic permeated the air, mingling with the thin smoke from the red candles. Mitchell couldn’t resist any longer and sank his teeth into Anders’ neck, drawing deep draughts of blood into his mouth, crying out into the witch’s flesh as he felt Anders’ magic flow through his dead veins. The witch whimpered and the flames in the candles burned brighter, turning a red-gold that was entirely unnatural for any flame. His eyes shone brightly like the sun, the brightest light that Mitchell had ever seen, and yet it still didn’t burn the vampire’s skin. He smirked into his mate’s flesh as he drank more, until finally Anders dug his nails into Mitchell’s sides, telling the vampire to stop or Anders would be forced to singe him again (that was a story for another, much less desperate time). Blood stained the already bloody sheets, leftover marks from the last time they made love this roughly. For some reason, Anders loved leaving their sheets bloody for as long as they could get away with it, and well, Mitchell could rarely find it in himself to disagree with his lover’s requests, so he went along with it. 

Bloody bruises bloomed like black roses in the setting sun as hands beat flesh, nails and claws ripping into each other in a mating frenzy of divine pain and pleasure. By mutual unspoken consent, the witch lubed up and entered his undead lover, his hard, hot cock making the vampire scream out in joy as he was penetrated. Long, hard thrusts were attempted at first, with Anders wanting to draw it out for as long as he could, but soon the witch’s control was shattered and all attempts at long, leisurely fucking were thrown to the wind when Mitchell mewled and bared his neck, begging for his lover to mark him up. That, among many other things, was guaranteed to make the spellcaster lose his control, and soon his thrusting became brutal, almost punishing as he slammed into his lover, fucking him like the whore he was. Mitchell screamed with abandon, not caring if the neighbors would hear, forgetting that Anders had magically soundproofed the room for just such an occasion. Still, the witch sometimes took down the spell, just so that the whole apartment complex could hear who owned the dark vampire, and who the vampire owned in turn. 

No words were spoken, save for curses and half-screamed orations of the other’s name, the slick sounds of fucking and bleeding flesh and harsh panting the only other things to break the thick silence of the room. They had no idea how long they had been fucking, nor did they care, but if they had looked, they would have seen the sun beginning to set beyond the thick, velvet curtains adorning the windows and the walls. The candles had all but melted down into oblivion, and the darkness crept back into the corners of the room like a dog awaiting the call of its master. The witch and the vampire paid it no heed, however, as they continued to claw their way to the ultimate high, their orgasms just beyond their reach. Again, Mitchell bared his neck, letting Anders bite it and mark it up, and a small hand reached between them to stroke Mitchell off. A few more thrusts and a howling of Mitchell’s name later, and the witch flew off the precipice, screaming so loudly that he shattered their mirrors as he came into his lover, painting Mitchell’s insides with his seed. The vampire wasn’t far behind, clawing fresh marks down Anders’ back as his cool cum splattered across his chest, smearing with the layers of blood on both of their chests. 

They lay panting for what felt like hours, but was only a few minutes as the tried to regain their breath. Anders’ heartbeat was loud and fast in Mitchell’s ear, and the witch could hear his lover’s slightly elevated heart rate from where his ear rested against the vampire’s sweaty and warm chest. He adored that his lover couldn’t get really hot unless they stood under a hot shower or Anders had fucked him into oblivion. Smiling smugly, the witch waved his hand, and the candles refreshed themselves, the wax re-forming into tall, thick candles, the wick straightening out and lighting up once again. The darkness retreated, waiting in the corners again as the sun finally set. Mitchell’s keen vampire senses could hear the sounds of cars outside before Anders murmured something and cut off the annoying sounds of the outside world from both of their ears. From a distance, a haunting melody played from phantom violins, the strings worn with use and age. It played a dark love song that Mitchell had composed for Anders some time ago, when they were first courting after Anders had been outed as a witch. The two wrapped their arms around each other and lay entangled on top of the twisted sheets, the blood and cum and sweat drying on them. Neither of them cared. For Mitchell, the threat to his lover was gone, so all else could go fuck itself for the time being, and Anders, well, he was sated and sticky and smiling smugly on top of his mate. Things were going just fine as far as he was concerned.

* * *

 

Out in the woods not far from Auckland, near the flatlands, a shrill scream pierced the amethyst night sky as six mangled, bloody, fly-ridden corpses were found by a pair of hikers. The discovery would make the headlines. Klaus would shake his head, but would do nothing about it, only smiling vaguely whenever a human came into his coffee shop and mentioned the vicious murders. Auckland’s witches just laughed uproariously when they heard the news, and Mitchell preened under the attention as Anders just rolled his eyes. And from then on, the vampires of New Zealand bowed their heads down in respect and fealty whenever Mitchell walked by. The King had returned. 

Long live the king. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "The Sharpest Lives" by My Chemical Romance. It's one of my favorite songs for this pairing. Do you guys want me to publish my playlist for them? Let me know in the comments!


End file.
